The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  A sustained curious stare from the archivist was sufficient for Morton to pull open the electoral register. Headed Folkestone & Hythe Constituency, the page provided an index to the various boroughs contained within it. Morton scanned down until he spotted the index of streets for the Folkestone borough. Knowing that Aunty Margaret, his biological mother had been living at Canterbury Road in 1974 with her parents and brother, Morton searched for the correct constituency ward then thumbed through to the start of the road. Placing a finger carefully on the first surname, he slowly drew it down the list to the bottom of the page before continuing onto the next. When he reached the end of the page having drawn a blank, a sagging feeling began to grow in his stomach. What if this line of enquiry is over before it’s even begun? he thought. Tentatively and slowly, he turned the page and was relieved to see that Canterbury Road seemed to be a long one. He returned his finger to the page and continued his search. Close to the bottom he found what he was searching for: his family and the two adjacent neighbours, one of whom had been operating a guesthouse.

  Dyche, Edward M. 161

  Dyche, Irene L. 161

  Farrier, Alfred 163

  Farrier, Peter 163

  Farrier, Maureen 163

  Pollard, Brian 165

  Pollard, Elizabeth S. 165

  There they were, his adoptive father, Peter and his adoptive mother, Maureen living with Morton’s grandfather, Alfred. For the briefest of moments Morton wondered why his biological mother, Margaret was not listed, then he remembered that being just sixteen years old, she was two years too young to be registered.

  ‘Where did you stay, Jack?’ Morton mumbled to himself, as he tapped the end of his pencil on the register. Either the Pollard family or the Dyche family were running a guesthouse at which his biological father came to stay. But which house? Morton wondered.

  Having scribbled down the details, he closed the ledger and returned it to the cabinet. The shelving below formed a continuation of electoral registers up until the year 2001 along with an assortment of phone books from the 1980s onwards. Searching above the electoral registers, Morton found what he was looking for: Kelly’s Directory of Folkestone 1974. He pulled the brown A5-sized book from the shelf and returned to his seat. Flicking to the commercial section of the book, he worked his way through the alphabetised list of occupations and services on offer.

  ‘Guest houses,’ Morton said, his heart rate beginning to quicken. He found the name he was looking for from the long list in front of him:

  Dyche, E. M. 161 Canterbury Rd

  Morton grinned. His first tentative steps in locating his father had paid off; he now knew exactly where he had stayed. Having used a crude online conception calculator, Morton knew that his biological father had visited the guesthouse sometime between 2nd January and 10th January 1974. He had cleared the first hurdle, but he knew that the journey to finding his father would be a long and complicated one; it could very likely turn out to be the most difficult case of his career.

  He returned the book to the shelf, packed up his things and headed out of the building. Outside, a thin wispy cloud had temporarily veiled the sun but without diminishing the heavy heat of the day. Perching his sunglasses on his nose, Morton strode away from the library back towards the main shopping arteries of the town, as he began to consider the next steps that he needed to take. He wanted to know more about Edward and Irene Dyche and their guesthouse. Two people could easily assist this line of enquiry. One was his Aunty Margaret, who last Christmas made it clear in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing to do with his quest to find his father. That left one other person: his adoptive father.

  On the corner of Rendezvous Street, in the midst of a flurry of pedestrians, Morton withdrew his mobile. He opened up his contacts and found his father’s phone number. His finger lingered over the dial button but something inside him prevented him from pressing it. He just couldn’t do it. Since suffering a heart attack two years ago, which had left his father flirting with the border between life and death, their strained relationship had improved somewhat. To ask his father now the questions that he needed answering could send them back to the days of shared apathy and mutual indifference. Pushing his phone back into his jeans’ pocket, Morton looked up and spotted a bustling café on the corner opposite. Painted peach with large arched windows, on which were etched the words Django’s Café & Petit Bistro, the building was surrounded by metallic silver chairs and tables. Only one table was empty and Morton, feeling a sudden urge for caffeine, hurried over towards it. As he took a seat, he remembered his promise to his fiancée, Juliette that he would cut down on the amount of coffee that he drank. ‘I’m going to make it one of your wedding vows,’ she had joked recently.

  ‘Now that would be a commitment,’ he had responded.

  He picked up the laminated menu that was wedged between the salt and pepper pots and ran his eyes down the page.

  ‘What can I get you, love?’ a plump waitress with a sweaty brow asked, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

  ‘A toasted teacake, please.’

  ‘Okay. Anything to drink?’ she asked, pencil poised and ready.

  Morton thought for a moment. ‘A small latte, please.’

  ‘Won’t be long,’ she replied, scuttling off inside.

  A small latte: that was enough of a concession for now, Morton thought, as he looked around him at the people busily milling about. His eyes drifted back to the motley collection of customers sitting outside the café. Laughter from the adjacent table drew his attention. It was emanating from two men, one suited, smart and middle-aged, the other casual, older and smiling at something the other man had said. Snatches of their conversation drifted over to Morton and when he heard the younger man call the other ‘Dad’, he paid closer attention. Theirs was an ordinary relationship, where dips and breaks in conversation were normal and not uncomfortable, where any topic from trivial to profound could be raised, where their DNA was inextricably linked and could overcome any of life’s obstacles. Morton knew that, however much his relationship might improve with his adoptive father, it would never be like that.

  From behind the cover of his sunglasses, he watched the two men intently until the waitress returned with his teacake and small latte. Morton ignored the food and drink and pulled out his mobile.

  ‘Hello?’ came a gruff reply.

  ‘Hi, Dad, it’s Morton.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Morton asked, repeating the same telephone protocol that they had used for years.

  ‘Not too bad. How’s work?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Morton answered. It was now time to deviate from the script but he needed to choose his words very carefully. ‘I’m working on a case at the moment that involves the Dyche family in Folkestone. Do you remember them from your time living in Canterbury Road?’

  There was a short pause before his father answered and Morton hoped that he hadn’t already perceived the purpose of his call. ‘Yes, yes I do. Golly, I haven’t thought about Mr and Mrs Dyche for a long while. How funny that you should be delving into their pasts. A relative of theirs asking about them, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Morton lied.

  ‘Hmm. Can’t imagine anything funny going on with that pair.’

  Morton laughed. ‘Not all my genealogical cases involve funny goings-on. What do you remember about them?’

  ‘Well, they were just an ordinary couple. He was employed down the gas works for as long as I can remember and she ran their home as a guesthouse. She was a lovely one, made beautiful pastries. Oh, and they always had a dog on the go—usually a springer spaniel.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton said. Whilst his dad continued talking about the various dogs that the Dyches owned, Morton hunted in his bag and removed his notepad and pen. ‘How old were they?’ Once the question was out of his mouth, he regretted it since it gave away his interest in a particular timeframe.

  ‘Depends when you mean,’ his father answere
d. ‘I’d say when your mother and I moved out just after you were born they were in their sixties.’

  ‘And you say they ran a guesthouse?’

  ‘That’s right—all manner of folk coming and going.’

  ‘Do you remember any of them?’ Morton asked, knowing that he was skating on thin ice now.

  His father exhaled noisily as he spoke. ‘Not really. You’re going back…goodness…more than forty years.’

  Morton decided to take a chance. A very big chance. ‘Do you happen to remember an American family who stayed there in early 1974?’

  ‘Erm, hang on—it’s ringing a bell. Early 1974?’ Morton could almost hear the cogs turning in his father’s head, as the reason for the phone call polarised. ‘No. I don’t remember. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to do. Better go. Bye.’ And with that, the call ended.

  Morton sighed. Why had he been so stupid as to push such an obvious question onto his father? Did he really think that he wouldn’t be capable of making such a transparent connection?

  He took a bite of his teacake but he had lost his appetite and discarded it. He gulped the small latte down, paid up and headed back to his car, wishing that he hadn’t been so bungling in his questioning.

  Morton parked up outside the guesthouse on Wear Bay Road, a wealthy area to the east of Folkestone where chunky six-bedroomed detached homes were rewarded with uncompromising views across the heritage coast. Morton had booked two nights in the luxury accommodation; his bedroom was large and modern with a sizeable balcony overlooking the sea. Great grass-and-chalk cliffs rose to the east and west and on each hill was situated a dilapidated Martello tower, leftovers from the Napoleonic Wars.

  He climbed out of the car and briefly took in the view. The main reason that he had chosen to stay here was neither for the view nor the luxury, but because of the proximity to Canterbury Road—just a fifteen-minute walk away. These were the streets which his ancestors, including his biological father had once trodden. With a slow, mindful gait he began his journey, soaking in the surroundings as he went. Canterbury Road—as he knew from the electoral register—was a long one, with a diverse range of properties from deprived social housing through Victorian terraces to smart modern homes. As the house numbers rose into the hundreds, a ball of discomfort began to form in his stomach. He slowed his pace as he stood outside number 160; directly opposite him were 161 and 163 Canterbury Road. The two houses, painted slightly different shades of cream, were joined together, forever bound in time like their occupants in January 1974. He looked at the two simple properties, typical architecture of the 1930s. He stared hard, as if doing so would force them to reveal their secrets.

  Morton closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine standing on this very spot more than forty years ago. He pictured his biological father sitting on the wall in front of the house, chatting coyly to the then sixteen-year-old Margaret Farrier. When he imagined his father’s appearance, he projected an image of himself aged eighteen—that was what his Aunty Margaret had told him that his father had looked like. In Morton’s mind he saw them strolling casually together into town to watch a film at the local cinema before going out for a drink and becoming closer. Why didn’t you ever write to her, Jack? Morton wondered. How very differently his life might have turned out if their relationship had survived for more than one week.

  He opened his eyes and continued to be transfixed by the houses, wondering, yet not caring what people in the passing cars must be thinking about the strange man gazing at thin air. The incredible irony that both his biological mother and father and his adoptive mother and father were living here, side by side forty years ago had not escaped him: it was a scenario worthy of some trashy daytime TV talk-show.

  Taking out his phone, Morton took several shots of the two houses then set off back to the guesthouse, his mind recreating, embellishing and inventing the love story of Jack and Margaret.

  Two hours later, back at the guesthouse, Morton was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, a gentle, salty breeze blowing up from the sea through the open door to the veranda. Watercolours of local sites in oak frames were spaced neatly on the white walls and a vase of fresh carnations rested on a coffee table in the small lounge area.

  ‘Damn,’ Morton muttered, as confirmation appeared onscreen that both Edward and Irene Dyche had died in the late 1980s. Given what his father had told him about their ages in the 1970s, it was hardly surprising that they were long since dead. All hope now rested on a son that Morton had found, Roy Dyche, who was born in 1933. Using an online electoral register website, Morton had tracked him down to a current address in Portsmouth. Given that Roy was not present with his parents in 1974, it was highly unlikely that he had any personal recollection of the American visitors. It was Morton’s hope, however, that some fragment of Roy’s parents’ guesthouse business still existed, which might shed some light on their former guests.

  Morton hastily typed out a letter to Roy Dyche, which he would print and send as soon as he returned home later that day, then he sat back and gazed at the laptop screen. There must be some other way to find him, he thought. Some other genealogical trick or avenue to pursue. But he couldn’t think of anything. He had previously conducted extensive research into the university course of which his Aunty Margaret had a vague recollection of Jack’s enrolment and he had found that only the Department of Classical Studies and Anthropology in Boston University offered degrees in Archaeology in 1974. Although without firm evidence, Morton sufficiently felt this to be the most likely place at which his father had studied and had emailed them, painstakingly setting out why he was asking for the surnames of anyone who took the course in 1974 called Jack. An officious reply from a lady called Bridgette in the administration department had told him that data protection laws meant that his request had been denied. Every hope now rested with Roy Dyche. As niggling doubts began their low chatter in his head, Morton closed the laptop lid and stepped out onto the balcony in order to free his mind from the bleakness of the case. A purple and pink sunset worthy of an artist’s canvas nestled gracefully between the two hills, the sight of which instantly calmed his spirit. Somewhere out there, across the ocean was his father. Somehow, Morton was determined to find him.

  From the coffee table beside him, Morton’s mobile began to ring.

  Dad, the screen said. Had his father had a change of heart and decided to tell Morton everything he could remember about the mysterious American visitors from January 1974? Morton wondered, as he clicked to answer the call.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ he ventured, trying to mask the apprehension in his voice.

  ‘Hello, Morton, it’s Madge here.’

  Morton’s insides sagged. Madge. His father’s girlfriend. The idea of his father having any kind of a relationship other than with his mother still filled Morton with an immature misplaced abhorrence that he felt could never be placated. ‘Hello, Madge,’ he said, unclenching his molars. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, thank you. Listen, I was just wondering if you were busy at the moment?’

  Morton hesitated. What was this all about? Madge never phoned him and he began to fear that something had happened to his father. Had his phone call caused another heart attack? ‘Is Dad okay?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s his usual grumpy self. So, are you busy?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Morton answered, curious to know where this conversation was leading.

  ‘Excellent,’ Madge chirped. ‘Can you and Juliette come to dinner tonight? Something I’d like to discuss.’

  ‘Oh, right. Anything important?’

  ‘Yes, it is rather. Can you make it for around six?’

  Morton found himself agreeing. ‘Yes, that should be fine.’

  ‘See you tonight, then. No need for chocolate, wine or flowers—just yourselves. Bye.’

  Morton looked at his phone incredulously. What could be so important? he wondered. Nothing…except some information about his biological father. If that was the case, Morton couldn’t fat
hom why Madge had phoned him and not his father. He’d noticed from recent visits that they were spending an increasing amount of time together—perhaps his father had simply asked her to make the call? Or perhaps it was her attempt to diffuse a potentially explosive situation before it had the chance to ignite and his father was unaware that she had rung him? Whatever, he would find out tonight.

  Morton texted Juliette about their last minute plans this evening, pocketed the phone, then began to pack his small suitcase.

  ‘There. The dinner’s in the oven,’ Madge announced, as she strode into the lounge. ‘I hope your father won’t be too much longer at the Bowls Club. I did tell him to be here by now, but you know what he’s like.’

  Morton smiled politely, trying to stifle his malaise at Madge’s over-familiarity with his father’s house—the place in which Morton had grown up and in which hundreds of family memories—good and bad—had been lived out and created.

  ‘That’s Farrier men for you,’ Juliette quipped with a faint smile, as she turned her head in his direction. Her words were playful, but having lived with her for two years, Morton could detect the controlled vestige of genuine displeasure. The source of her trouble was to be found on the front page of the newspaper resting on the coffee table between them. Guilty! The headline of the Hastings & St Leonards Observer declared boldly, above a blurred shot of Lady Daphne Mansfield being bundled into the back of a police van, destined for a life sentence at Lewes Prison. After a lengthy and protracted court case, she had been found guilty of murder and attempted murder. The fact that the attempted murder happened to have been Morton’s, whilst he was working on a previous case, seemed to have irked Juliette less than the news that her favourite programme, The Priory had been cancelled, owing to the fact that the majority of the locations used in the drama series were situated in Lady Mansfield’s dwelling.